


Breath In The Rain

by magical_procrastinator



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, F/F, Heavy Angst, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magical_procrastinator/pseuds/magical_procrastinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decided to continue with this :)<br/>"Sometimes love is so strong, it can open a door to places where the impossible can happen. But how far would you go for a second chance?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Due to viewer response, I am going to post my story. Please keep in mind that this is BASED ON THE FILM SOLARIS so there will be similarities and liberties taken with dialogue, scenes, etc.
> 
> Please comment, bookmark and/or leave kudos—they're very encouraging!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Lost Girl, Solaris or any of the characters affiliated with either.

It's raining. That much is true.

It's hotter than they said it'd be. A sun hotter.

_“Bo, what is it?”_

And it's quiet. The air is pregnant; heavy and fragile.

_“I love you so much.”_

Fingers twist together. Sweaty, hotter than outside and inside and everywhere. Her eyes are no longer brown. They are blue as her 'something blue' exactly one hundred and seven years ago.

“How are you today?”

Silence. Hormonal imbalance.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

_“Don't you love me anymore?”_

#

“I've made progress. And I recognise that. But my wife? It's just like–I mean–it's like, anything can set her off. It could be the phone ringing, or-something on the news. Something online. Something when's she's out shopping, maybe, like a, a t-shirt in a store window. You know the ones, with the big, slanted writing on the front, looks like graffiti or some other kinda street art?”

Dr Dennis knows. Her best friend had worn such t-shirts a hundred years ago.

“It just puts her right back in that place, and all my progress? Ripped away. I'm right back there with her.”

“And I feel the exact opposite,” a nasal voice retorts from across the circle of inward-facing chairs. Louise, her name—she wears a black scarf and speaks with her hands. “I see the news and the Internet and the t-shirts and I feel squat. I don't even think they're real. I mean, is that normal? Am I not supposed to feel something by now? Is this therapy bullshit paying off at all?”

Interesting question. The psychologist makes note to look into it, later.

Outside, the pitiless rain falls, falls steadily, with a fierce malignity that is all too human.

#

She's distracted and cuts her finger whilst chopping a courgette, and for the briefest second she considers going out to heal. It has been twenty nine years; feeding off of other people is no longer a question. At least not when it comes to life-threatening injuries, which are rare in the days since she's majored in clinical psychology. “Two sexy doctor lovers?” Bo can almost hear Kenzi in her head. She smiles a little. She may have only picked up the degree for a police case, but it is nice to have a stable, human job.

In the end, cold tap water prevails. It isn't that bad a nick anyway.

The buzzer sounds.

She opens the door to two tall men. They look like bouncers, or guards, or right-hand men to a war general.

“Can I help you?”

“We're looking for Dr Isabeau Dennis.”

Turns out they are emissaries.

#

The TV is new—and, with a little Succubus charm, free—so the quality of the Blood King's video recording is impeccable, even if his camera dates back to the late 1900s. Trick never was one for modernising even the littlest of objects. Bo's mind turns to her grandmother's sword, the one he had gifted her with on her thirtieth birthday, decades and decades ago, before turning back to the screen. The men stand behind her on her either side, right-hand men to their war general. Or, rather, the war general's granddaughter.

“Isabeau.” A short laugh. Bo knows it isn't genuine. “I can't imagine what you must be thinking, receiving a message like this. I'm sorry if it seems melodramatic but,” his voice goes quiet but the static is still as loud and bothersome “you are the only person I can trust, my darling.

I need your help. Heck, we all do. Myself, Dyson, Tamsin, Hale. We need you. We need you to come to Solaris.”

Solaris. Bo narrows her eyebrows, finally realizing that Trick's surroundings are grey and made of metal.

“I don't know how to describe what we are experiencing up here. We can't even agree amongst ourselves what is–what is happening. Or, what to do about it.

I suppose you're wondering why we have not left.

It's because we can't. None of us want to.

We had hoped to keep the Dark out of the loop, which is why you're getting this–well this outlandish request. Since you're Unaligned, we needn't worry about either side becoming involved and shutting the project down.

And with your experiences and your background, you really are the ideal candidate for this job.”

Bo leans forward. He seems to be eyeing her like he understands.

“So anyway,” he sighs. “I hope you will come to Solaris, Bo. I think you need to, and you will see what I mean.

I wish I could be more specific about all this but” and his eyes grow big and somewhat dangerous “people are listening.”

#

“You can imagine the distress General McCorrigan's message will cause if released to the High Elders.”

Yes, Bo knows. She interprets their telling her of this as a plea. Take the job. Save us the trouble. She stares at her grandfather's frozen face, notes the glint in his eyes. Confusion, fear, hope. A triad of emotions Bo can't quite wrap her head around. “Why not send in the security force?”

“We did.”

To this, Bo's head snaps up and around. The man addressing her has green eyes so brightly murderous they remind her of Tamsin. “We lost contact with the Athena as it was approaching Solaris. They haven't returned.”

Well shit. Bo frowns, tilting her head to look at the screen again. She's almost out of ideas. “There must be some sort of onboard AI system.”

“They shut it down.”

She can't help but glare slightly at the green-eyed man.

“General McCorrigan is hoping to solve this problem before either side becomes aware of it,” the other man says, finally. “There will be some amount of preparation involved but you shouldn't have any trouble. You have a previous with space flight, I assume?”

Bo nods briefly. She knows she doesn't have a choice in this, and it pisses her off. “Is this what everybody wants? My voyage to Solaris?”

“Of course,” Green Eyes replies. “The situation will disappear quietly and no-one need ever know about it.”

“We feel confident that, if you can board the Coalition ship, you can negotiate the crew's safe return.”

_So you send a severely inexperienced psychologist as opposed to a professional team of highly trained astronauts. It really does pay to straddle the political divide._

#

Solaris is pink, and sometimes it's purple. By nightfall it's red and yellow. It's also twice the size of Earth and surrounded by rings and wisps of watery white dust. Bo sees it all through the glass of her helmet and the window of her spacecraft, the Dark Horse. She has to say, it's really fucking beautiful.

The Coalition, however, resembles a large tin can attached to a longer, thinner tin can, surrounded by huge silver hoops held in place by long thin beams. Abstract art, Bo thinks, and the biggest tin can she's ever seen, though she knows the hoops are satellites and the smaller tin isn't actually part of the ship.

She looks back at the planet. It's blue now, with rippled green veins cracking out all over.

Dark Horse connects with Coalition. She wonders if she'll receive a welcoming committee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back!
> 
> Please comment, bookmark and/or leave kudos—they're very encouraging!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Lost Girl, Solaris or any of the characters affiliated with either.

No welcoming committee. In fact, there doesn't seem to be anyone, just a lot of noisy machinery and silver walls and—  
Blood.  
The perfect, bloody brick road.  
There are splats on the floor leading to the next room. The door handle is lined with four thick red streaks.  
Bo's temperature is rising. Her helmet lies abandoned by her briefcase back in the last room.  
There's a glove, white and red and rubber. Some of the fingers are smaller than others. Bo wonders if the glove was pulled off in a haste, then why it would have to have been.  
Through another door. It's freezing. There's a massive screen on the wall opposite her, above what must be a thousand different colored buttons. There are two white suit bags; one is high, one is flat.  
The high one has been scribbled on with shaky, black ink.  
Hale Santiago.  
A wrangled sob chokes its way from her dry throat. She thought it was their luggage bags.  
#  
Music is filtering down the tight, circle hallway. It's heavy, it's explicit. It must be Tamsin's.  
True to form, the blonde is lounging in her chair, legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the coms panel, her arms folded. She's murmuring at the screen and its readings, something about a bitch and her son.  
“Commander?”  
Tamsin's brightly murderous green eyes fix her in place over her shoulder. She stands, almost scrambles to do so, and is rushing towards her before either can process what is going on.  
But Bo doesn't hesitate to hug her just as desperately, just as needily.  
“Jesus Christ, Succubus,” Tamsin sighs, stroking the back of Bo's head gently. “I thought you'd never get here.”  
“What happened to Hale?” Bo asks, suddenly aware of how weak she sounds. She hasn't fed in a week. She's not proud of it. But she buries her face into the Valkyrie's warm neck anyway and tries her hardest not to inhale her scent as if it is a chemically induced additive.  
“Suicide.”  
Bo pulls back. Her eyes are blue. Her lip is quivering. Her heart is ready to explode through her ribs.  
“Who found him?”  
“I did,” Tamsin sighs, folding her arms across her chest and averting her gaze.  
“That blood, leading to the lab. Is it his?”  
Tamsin inhales, and blows out slowly. “Yeah, blood. How 'bout that?”  
“Where's my grandfather?”  
Tamsin eases back into her seat, spins once whilst wagging her finger in the air. “Yeah, um, see, that's the thing. We dunno. He just kinda” she flicks her hand away from her head and whistles “disappeared.”  
“Disappeared.” Bo's voice is flat and incredulous.  
“Disappeared,” Tamsin confirms with a nod.  
“How did he disappear?”  
“That is the question, among–many, other, questions. We dunno. We do know that he's not on the ship and that's–that's all we know.”  
“Where's Dyson?” For a second Bo is reluctant to ask.  
But Tamsin's face shifts slightly, into some kind of comfortable. “Mr Mission Specialist is holed up in his room. And Mr Mission Specialist won't let you in his room.”  
The corners of Bo's mouth edge upwards slightly as Tamsin rolls her eyes. She's wearing a black tank top and army pants, and her hair is secured into a ponytail high on the back of her head. She's as beautiful as Solaris.  
“Can you tell me what's happening here?”  
Tamsin's frown deepens itself further into her face. She thinks for a moment, before she looks back at Bo. “I could tell you what's happening. But I don't know if that'd really tell you what's happening.”  
#  
“I just wanna talk, D.”  
Bo is outside of Dyson's room, knuckles raised to the door, gaze on the panels beneath her feet. She has knocked four times, and is beginning to wonder if anyone is actually home.  
“Dyson, come on. It's Bo.”  
Static is the only response for a few long seconds. Then a soft, nervous voice filtered through the metal. “Give me your word you won't ask to come in.”  
Bo's lips part in confusion. Tamsin hadn't warned her of this–this withdrawal, this isolation. It's unsettling. It's frightening. But he had known Hale since they were kids. She clears her throat. “Alright.”  
Metal shifts, clangs heavily, and then the wolf is there, still half hidden behind the door. His face is set in stone. Bo swallows again.  
“Hi,” she whispers. Tears are in her eyes.  
A muscle jumps in Dyson's neck, as if he's attempting to swallow a whale. “You hear about Hale?”  
“Yes, and about Trick. I've seen Tamsin. I'm so sorry, D.”  
Dyson only nods; a monotonous, mechanical nod, as if he's been doing it for years. Bo decides to avoid apologising for a while. “What happened to him, Dyson?”  
“Didn't Tamsin tell you?”  
“I wanted to hear your version.”  
Dyson looks up sharply. “There isn't any version, Bo. He killed himself.”  
OK, so maybe not the best direction of conversation. Bo reroutes. “Why haven't you guys come home? What happened here? What did you find?”  
Dyson sighs, a rumble deep within his throat, and Bo thinks he's going to tell her. Tell her everything. Explain everything that both Trick and Tamsin had skipped over as if fire was burning under their feet. He looks like he wants to be sick. “Why are you here?”  
“Because if you guys don't come home soon, the Light are gonna find out. And they're gonna abandon this ship.”  
His breathing gets faster. “Until it starts happening to you, there's really no point in discussing it.”  
With a series of hollow bangs, Bo is closed out again.  
#  
She's stripping out of her spacesuit when she sees her. Petite, black hair, bangs, t-shirt with big slanted writing on the front. She doesn't look more than ten years old.  
Bo is sure she's not Kenzi, can't be Kenzi, but she calls the name anyway.  
And the little girl starts running, clash clash clash against the floor.  
“Hey!” Bo exclaims, taking off after her. “Hey! Come back!”  
Around the corner, down the hallway, up a ladder—Bo doesn't stop. Can't stop. She's the spitting image of Kenzi.  
But she can't be Kenzi. Kenzi died more than half a century ago.  
And there is nobody else onboard this ship.  
The little girl starts to giggle as she slips inside a gap betwen two storage units. Bo reaches out to grab her, get a proper look at her face, see how familiar it really is. Because it can't be Kenzi.  
She looks away for a second and the little girl disappears.  
#  
“I saw a girl.”  
Tamsin hums, eyes fixed firmly on the book she's reading. Dylan Thomas, Bo notes the author. Famous poet. Not a very happy one. “Yeah. How 'bout that?”  
“Why did I see a girl?”  
“To see or not to see,” Tamsin breathes, smirking. “That is the question, isn't it?”  
“Will you get your head out of your ass and please tell me what the Hell is going on here? Why the Hell am I seeing little girls who look like my dead best friend, running around the ship like a deviant teenager!?”  
This gets Tamsin's attention, rapt. “You saw Kenzi?”  
Bo narrows her eyebrows, unable to stop her hands from shaking. She's so hungry. And Tamsin is delicious. “No, I saw a ten year old who looks like her.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose and inhaling. “Whatever. I'm probably just tired.”  
Tamsin eyes her carefully before standing up. “You fed lately?”  
And, there it is. Bo curses herself. “Yeah. Loads.”  
“Bullshit. Feed off of me.”  
Bo doesn't need to be told twice by this point. She stands, grabs Tamsin's throat, and pulls her into a kiss. She wants to be careful, to stop, but she's starving.  
She falls back down on the bed with Tamsin in her lap, massaging Bo's tongue with her own and sifting her fingers through her dark hair. The blue stream passing between their lips begins and strengthens and ends, and it tastes as good as it always has.  
Bo thinks of Lauren. She breaks away.  
Tamsin whistles. “Whoa. Better?” Her face is flushed, her lips are glossy. She's somewhat rugged, almost.  
Bo nods, closing her eyes and placing her forehead against the blonde's. “Better. Thank you.”  
“Anytime.” Tamsin winks and shuffles out of her lap, adjusting herself as Bo's mind refocuses itself on the task at hand.  
“They told me I have to conduct formal interviews with the crew. You think you can help me get Mr Mission Specialist out of his hole?”  
Tamsin cocks her head to the side, amusement in her eyes. “I think that could be arranged.”  
Bo nods, standing up again. Before she can leave, Tamsin is speaking. “How much sleep do you need?”  
Bo's confused. “How much sleep?”  
“Yeah. How long do you think you could stay awake for?”  
“Depends, I guess.”  
“Well, when you do go to sleep? I find I sleep much better with the door locked.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, bookmark and/or leave kudos—they're very encouraging!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Lost Girl, Solaris or any of the characters affiliated with either.

“I was with the project at the Ash's behest. All of us were, even Tamsin. Bo, you know all this.”

Bo sighs, pressing the button on the recorder. “I know. But the High Elders will want proof that my coming here was necessary if Trick's video is indeed released to them. I need the whole story, from you and from Tamsin.” She pauses for a second, thumb hovering over the button. “You good to go?”

Dyson lifts his head in response. Bo takes that as a yes and resumes her questioning.   
“What do you mean by 'the Ash's behest'?”

“I was trained in physics as well as physical combat. Well-rounded is what he said. I was sent here to asses the economic potential of Solaris, whether or not it was a viable commercial property or a possible energy source.” He scoffs, looking down at the table. “He wants Solaris. He wants the Fae to have ownership of it.  
I was still compiling data when this shit started happening.”

“Did you run any tests on the ship, the food, the air, the water?”

Dyson is shaking his head before Bo has even finished. “I checked it all, fifty times over. There are no signs of any contaminants or psychotropic compounds, none of that stuff.” He sighs, like he's been defeated. 

“And how about you?” Bo asks softly. “How're you doing?”  
Dyson almost smiles. “Depression, along with bouts of hypomania, primary insomnia, suggestions of agoraphobia, obsessive compulsive disorder, shock, fatigue, denial...”

“None of which are unusual given the circumstances.”

“I know.”

“And what can you tell me about what's happening here?”

Dyson's nose scrunches up and his eyes flash gold. There's such determination in his voice that Bo recognises it from years ago. “Just that I want it to stop. And I want to stop it. If I can stop it, that means I'm smarter than it is.” 

#

“You know, you could go home.”

Tamsin blinks at the book in her hands, caught between looking at the page and looking at Bo. 

“You could walk away from all of this. I guarantee it.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Tamsin chews on her bottom lip briefly, before hissing in a breath. “Yeah. See, thing is, I'd kill to go back to Earth. I'd kill. But, uh, Dyson.” She huffs out a laugh. “Well, Dyson happens to be Dyson, you know?”

Bo notices the uncomfortable shift in her disposition. She's not sure she does know. 

“So uh...but I'll see what I can do. Totes on the seeing.”

#

“We take off to the cosmos. Ready for anything! Solitude, hardship, exhaustion. Death.”

Bo is quiet as she moves around her new room, shoving books into lockers, clothes into closets, toiletries into baskets. Her screen is as big as the one back home, and just as able to play her grandfather's journal logs in high quality picture. 

He's playing with some kind of technical panel in this video. 

“We're proud of ourselves,” he smiles. Bo smiles back as she folds up the remainder of her clothes. “But when you think about it, our enthusiasm's a sham. We know of other worlds that are nowhere near us. We would like to resolve their mysteries, and leave the mysteries of our own kind, our own world, for others. For nobody.”

Bo stares at the screen, watches as her grandfather's face screws up in concentration as he works the device in his hand. “Damn thing,” he's muttering. 

It hits Bo that she'll probably never see Trick again. 

#

In bed that night, the Succubus is restless. The psychologist in her wonders if it's because of the shift in air pressure, the distance between her body and home, her hunger, her overactive brain. Her search for answers that, so far, nobody is willing to give to her. Not until she's part of it. 

Because only then will she be able to understand. 

She closes her eyes, daring Solaris to hit her with its best shot because she's positive that the planet is somehow involved. And she's determined to find out how. 

Sleep takes her, as does the red ball outside. 

#  
“Tell me something first: in a crowd like this, how do you read libido?”

“I see energy flow.”

“Hmm. Like an aura.”

“Kind of. Like the more aroused someone is, the hotter they burn.”

Bo made a visual sweep of the room, absorbing as much heat and energy as possible. The blonde beside her at the bar was staring at her like she was the only thing in the room. 

 

“I don't wanna hurt you,” Bo whispered, still cupping the woman's face in her gentle, uncertain hands. Her eyes betrayed her fear for the human, for what could happen if they did this, but she was lost in those eyes, that touch, those lips.   
“I trust you,” Lauren smiled, immediately surging forward and kissing her a third time. This time, Bo pulled her in closer. 

“Bo, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to protect you.”

It didn't make it hurt any less.

 

“Please just come back safe."

She kissed her and took her breath, didn't let go of her hand until she was running. 

“I heard you needed me. I came.”

 

“I need to know that this isn't about you getting over Dyson.”  
Bo grinned, tangling her fingers in Lauren's hair. “No. This is about us.” 

It always was. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Bo whispered, tears in her eyes. She was holding an ice pack to her bruised and bloody face. Lauren gazed at her, shuffled closer. 

“Come here.”

 

“You're a different person than you were then and the person you are now I absolutely love.”

 

“You take my breath away.”

Their lips grazed. “Breathless.”

“Completely.” 

 

“I'm not leaving you!” 

“Bo, Trick needs you.” Lauren smiled reassuringly, though Bo could see the conflict in her eyes. “I'll be alright.”  
Bo's eyes stung. She grabbed Lauren by the neck and crashed their mouths together. She didn't let go of her until it was time to go. Lauren watched her leave; a tear rolled down her cheek. 

#

Somewhere in amongst her dreams, her eyes crack open. Everything is fuzzy and far away but she can't close them. She's still dreaming, still thinking. 

A thick sheen of sweat glistens on her skin; her breathing gets heavier; her thoughts and recollections start to scatter. Solaris is orange, its veins are red. The picture becomes a little less fuzzy and Bo can't tell if she's awake or not. 

Something is moving. Pressing into her, molding into her shape. Fire spreads across her skin. She smells apples.

"I love you. So much."


End file.
